


welling up in tears (as i lay upon your belly)

by far2late



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman Beyond, Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Angst, Brainwashing, Conditioning, Confused Tim Drake, Damian Wayne-centric, Electrocution, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Sorry Tim Drake, M/M, Major Character Injury, Murder, No Smut, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Protective Damian Wayne, Protective Jason Todd, Psychological Torture, References to Depression, Tim Drake Needs a Hug, Tim Drake is Joker Jr., Tim Drake-centric, Torture, no beta we die like robins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:34:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24450637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/far2late/pseuds/far2late
Summary: "It had been a while since he had spoken with someone who was his age, with all his schooling done online for peak ability. It was convenient, in all ways but social. Everyone in the world he had inserted himself in were either old, murderous, or just people he didn’t like very much. It was nice to know that there’d be someone around his age to confide in, maybe be friends with. Or consider a brother.That was until Damian stabbed him, which very quickly put all those thoughts to a screeching halt worthy of a concussion headache as he sputtered and bled out from his midsection."ordamian is older. things are different.
Relationships: Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake & Damian Wayne, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson, Tim Drake & Jason Todd
Comments: 33
Kudos: 447





	1. Chapter 1

Tim and Damian have always been complicated, for lack of a better word. 

Their history is laced with fighting and blood and arguments, words that jabbed at their stony exteriors and a disgruntled respect that they had for the other’s skills. The issue of Robin was one they shied away from nowadays, Damian wearing the mantle proudly with Tim standing as Red Robin. They had already gone to blows about the entire ordeal before, and they had come to a begrudging standstill about the affair. 

When they had first met, it was in the Batcave. 

  
Tim had walked into the area around the time patrol had started to see a teen around the same age with him conversing with Bruce. He wasn’t anywhere near familiar, although his black hair and blue eyes held a resemblance to the man he was speaking with. They had paused in their conversation, and after an explanation from Bruce, he was happy. 

It had been a while since he had spoken with someone who was his age, with all his schooling done online for peak ability. It was convenient, in all ways but social. Everyone in the world he had inserted himself in were either old, murderous, or just people he didn’t like very much. It was nice to know that there’d be someone around his age to confide in, maybe be friends with. Or consider a brother. 

  
That was until Damian stabbed him, which very quickly put all those thoughts to a screeching halt worthy of a concussion headache as he sputtered and bled out from his midsection. 

After that, it was endless attempts on his life when he wasn’t expecting them and arguing that would last up to an hour if the two were left to their own devices. They had slowed in frequency, but the trust they held for each other was barely sturdy, and neither were particularly happy to take care of each other when missions called for it. 

Only training and fighting together had barely drudged up any semblance of respect between the two boys, and it was shaky at best. The respect they held for each other was only for their skills and the way they could utilize them. On the surface, at least. Damian couldn’t deny Tim’s skill in computers and martial arts as Tim couldn’t insult Damian’s penance with swords and stealth. It was the only place they could meet eyes civilly. 

Damian and Tim’s rivalry was only fueled by the fact that they were only a few months apart in age, and therefore much easier to compare to each other. It was usually unwise to do so, but sometimes those remarks just slipped out naturally among their family members. It did nothing but spur them on to compete more than they had before. Most had seen it as something for them to bond over, but under that, it was the underlying worry that their arguments would escalate until it was less of a friendly rivalry. 

Bruce certainly did little to stop them besides reprimanding them a little. Damian got away with a slap on the wrist and Tim was berated for not knowing better, and told that his brother was raised by assassins and didn’t know better and that he should have been the bigger person and simply shut down the fight as it started by ignoring him. It was so _unfair_ and so incredibly frustrating that Tim couldn’t help but resent Bruce for the way he favoured his son against the teen who had been by his side for so long. 

He didn’t bring it up with anyone, not wanting to see what the others had thought of his petty problems. The last thing he wanted to do was embarrass himself over something small and consequently, look like a brat. Tim very much likened that word to Damian, so he was less than happy for it to be directed to him in any circumstances. 

Jason and his friendship was something that he hadn’t really planned for, though. Or anticipated, for lack of a better word. Despite the man’s attempt to murder him a couple of times, he had grown fond of the teen and would let him come to his safe houses around Crime Alley after a particularly taxing fight. 

Tim was wary at first, of course. It was too good to be true to him. His favourite Robin, inviting him to stay the night after attempting to kill him on multiple occasions? It had to have been a set-up of some sort, Tim wouldn’t buy anything else. 

Maybe because his hopes had been let down so much over the years. 

Tim pushed that thought aside and decided to humour the man to find his offers were genuine. They were wrapped in barbed words, but Tim didn’t mind. He knew Jason had his own way with his words and expressing how he felt. The others had said he simply had trouble with expressing himself, but Tim didn’t really see it that way. 

If anything, it was simply Jason’s own language of caring. The teasing was comforting, really. On days when he had been doubtful or annoyed or coming back from an argument with Bruce, he had been one of his closest confidants about the messy parts of the family. Jason was well-versed in them, after all. 

(It’s a slow night on patrol, and Tim’s with Jason. His legs hung over the lip of a building, swinging slightly as the other man unclipped his helmet to sit next to him. Tim drew one of his legs up to hug it to his chest, resting his chin on his knee carefully with a small sigh. 

“What’s up with you, birdbrain?” Jason asked, clicking a lighter to start a post-patrol cigarette, eyes focused on that rather than Tim. It was something of a relief, not to have the man staring at him as he spoke. 

“D’you think that Bruce’ll ever see me as anything but Damian’s competition?” Jason took a long drag and let the smoke puff over his lips as he answered, his words becoming a catalyst. 

“I think if you make it your goal to stand out, he’ll be forced to see you as something different.” 

The words were ironic. Tim didn’t mind. He simply sat and thought as smoke billowed over his head and the cold air snuck under his cape. He’d never felt warmer.) 

Jason was usually the one to flit over issues rather than dwell on them, which Tim appreciated. He didn’t think he could physically handle it if one more person had attempted to make him talk out his feelings. It didn’t really seem therapeutic to announce out loud to a therapist that he was nearing manic-depressive thoughts because a murderous ex-assassin had made it his personal goal to tear down any semblance of Tim’s deteriorating mental health. Not helpful at all, really. 

Damian was always pushing at Tim’s buttons, always pointing out his little flaws in places he couldn’t control. His first few weeks with Damian led him to keep a keen eye out for anything that he might have planted to rid the world of Tim, which was weird to think about. That someone on his side actively wanted to get rid of him and had no qualms in trying to get rid of him. 

It led to more thoughts, maybe fears that Damian was just doing what everyone was scared to. It wasn’t fun to think about, so he avoided it. Compartmentalization was a skill, as was his ability to poke back at Damian where he knew it would sting just as much. He wasn’t innocent in the situation either, and he wouldn’t claim to be. If anything, he wasn’t a coward. Tim could own up to his mistakes should the situation call for it. It was something he prided himself on, along with his skill to successfully lie to Bruce. The second one wasn’t brought up nearly as much, for obvious reasons. 

Both of these skills had been brought up by his parents, both of whom had passed. Tim couldn’t find it in himself to be as apathetic as he wanted to be. It had hurt him more than he wanted, which he _hated._ He hadn’t seen them for half his life and they died, so what? He saw Bruce and the others more than he did his parents, and yet… 

He still cared. He hated it. 

That was probably what had distracted him tonight. The day had been riddled with reminders of his late parents, and by the time he had reached the cave to suit up, his temper was at its boiling point, replacing grief with anger in an attempt for his heart to protect itself. 

Damian spotted him as he suited up, placing a handful of Batarangs into his utility belt as he sneered up at Tim from where he was making his way down the stairs. “Tardy again, Drake? I expected better from the illustrious _Red Robin._ ” 

Tim was not in the mood for this at all. He shouldered past the other to grab his suit, ignoring Damian’s mild sputtering- which was him falling silent for a few moments, really- before changing. 

The suit’s material felt foreign against his skin. It rubbed him the wrong way, distracted him. Reminded him of things he didn’t want to think of. His father’s face flashed in his mind, his words when he discovered he was a vigilante, his anger and later acceptance. It was… Tim tucked the feelings away into the corner of his mind. He wouldn’t think of it that night. He had no place to, really. It had been a while now, since his murder. No reason to dwell. 

That’s what he repeated to himself as he emerged, cowl held loosely in his hand as he stepped outside of the changing area, seeing Damian _still_ there, in all his glory. It pissed Tim off a little, he could admit, as he took a few breaths to calm himself down from committing homicide at the mere sight of his face. 

“Are you sure you should be going out tonight? I wouldn’t want for your sloppy behaviour to result in disaster once more.” 

Maybe Damian hadn’t meant his father in the instance of that _once more._ He knew that there were other things he had fucked up on that were just as deserving to be the topic of the barb. But if anything, he was sensitive tonight, and Tim didn’t simply let the insult slip off like he always had. Their routines were simple, after all. Insult each other, work together when needed, and water under the bridge after they left the cave for bed. 

No, tonight, Tim let his eyes narrow as he told Damian to _fuck off, you little piece of demon shit,_ and _don’t try to follow me_ before he left the cave without listening for a response, cowl snug over his face. 

It was a bad idea to tell Damian not to follow him, in retrospect. 

He was covering one of the shadier parts of town in his district, where the larger faces of crime resided. The buildings were spotted in ripped up, old billboards and tagged with graffiti marking territories that he knew he wouldn’t be welcome in. The streets were empty, minus a couple of stragglers and the odd car or two. It was dormant, almost. 

(That should’ve been his first clue that something was wrong. A city like Gotham never slept, after all. It simply _waited._ )

Tim made sure that he stayed high above the ground as he made his rounds around his usual path, noting the lack of meet-ups absently. It wasn’t something he was dwelling on, not with his father’s murder on his mind. He cursed himself for not finding an area to patrol closer to Captain Boomerang’s usual hunting grounds, mind blurring slightly with thinly-held back grief. 

After a few hours of wandering, he had finally heard some form of trouble, faint screams hitting his ears as he immediately sped to the scene, grappling hook held tight in his hands. The wind hitting his face as he had gone was something that grounded him, and he had a hold on his temper once more as he landed at the scene, only to find- 

Nothing? 

Tim immediately pulled out his bo staff, looking around the darkened alley. He was deep into the heart of the neighbourhood at this point, and little light was reaching the area. The silence was pin-drop, and Tim could only turn for a second at the sound of gravel shifting before his face was doused in gas, painful and acidic as he coughed, slumping to the ground with burning eyes and loose limbs. 

… 

When Tim had come to, it was bound to a metal table that had been reclined to have him at an angle, cowl removed and domino mask left on. A jolt of panic shot through Tim before he clamped it down, getting a hold on himself to examine the situation. 

Cowl gone, strapped to a table. It was dark enough that he couldn’t see anything very clearly, eyes still adjusting to the light. His hands were held down by metal cuffs and torso pinned down by a similar contraption, along with his ankles. He was effectively stuck in place, with little room to move around, and cuffs tight enough that breaking his thumb wouldn’t prove helpful in his escape. More of a hindrance, really. 

By the time Tim took all these things into account, the lights had flicked on in the large warehouse he had been thrown in, and his heart dropped at the sight of the man staring back at him. 

“Good morning,” The Joker greeted theatrically, arms spread happily as a twisted grin curled up his pale face. Tim felt the blood leave his face, and the Joker seemed to have as well, cackling a little at the reaction. 

“Aren’t you happy to see me?” He asked, his voice hollowed in a stage-pout. “You were my favourite Robin, you know.”

“Cut the shit,” Tim snapped. “What do you want?” 

Joker’s face quickly became cold, shaking his head as he slowly walked his way towards Tim, each footstep sounding louder than the last. 

“I’ve been in Arkham a while, you know,” He said instead, not answering Tim’s question at first. He held a baton in his hand that he had spun as he walked. “Away from Batman, the streets… Harley.” 

The Joker stopped by Tim’s side, leaning into his personal space to speak, head tilting a little as he made constant eye contact with him. “My Harley is _much_ different than before I had gone to Arkham. I suspect it has something to do with Ivy, but she’s been such a good _friend_ the past couple of years, I wouldn’t hold it against her.”

A smile curled upon his face, eyes sparkling in a demented way. “Harley’s always been naughty, throwing herself at anyone who gave her eyes whenever I was away. She always comes back home to her Puddin’, but it seems she needs convincing this time around.” 

A small giggle broke free from the man, and Tim recoiled at the sound. It was demented and sent shivers up his spine, almost inhuman. The dots were slowly becoming clearer as he continued his speech, and Tim could feel his heart plummeting to his stomach as the man continued, not put-off by Tim’s fear. 

“Harley’s fond of you, did you know? Told me about how smart you were. Funny. Not as funny as me, though. She liked you better than the other two. Even after the _costume change,_ you proved to be the same. Harley’s a family gal, anyway. Now imagine that. Perfect little family, the three of us would be!” The Joker said, breaking off to laugh at the end as Tim went numb in his fingertips. 

“I won’t come willingly. I _refuse,_ ” He heard himself saying with a dry mouth, swallowing back saliva. Joker’s laughing cut off as he pulled a cloth off the small rolling table that was next to Tim. 

“I never said it would be _willingly_ , did I?” 

  
The car battery on the table looked all-too-menacing to Tim. 

… 

The first thing the joker did was electrocute Tim into unconsciousness. When he awoke again, it was to being knelt over a tub of liquid, half-empty bottles of bleach upturned near him. Tim’s eyes widened, and he immediately struggled to move away from where he had been bound, tugging at his ropes in spite of the inevitable rope burn that he would get. 

His struggles were halted by a hand curling into his hair tightly, nearly ripping a few strands from his head as he did so. Tim grit his teeth as he looked up at the Joker, eyes narrowed. 

“Fuck. Off.” The Joker tutted slightly, though it was tinged with deranged amusement.

“None of that now, Junior. Be a good boy for Daddy.” Tim recoiled at the sentence as he looked over to the tub in front of him again and spat at his feet as a response. The man’s eyes narrowed, and he didn’t spare a moment before shoving Tim’s face into the tub. 

The pain was unlike any he had felt, and he couldn’t help but open his mouth to scream, immediately choking as he did. His lungs were burning and when he had been jerked out, his only semblance of relief was that it hadn’t gotten in his eyes. The domino mask had been left on, as a way to keep his identity safe or just because it hadn’t loosened, Tim didn’t know. 

He was sprayed with cold water afterwards, the pressure cutting against his skin and face as he got some in his mouth and nose, leaving him coughing and gasping, skin irritated and burning. The Joker still held him by his hair after shutting the hose off, hand fisted into the locks as he examined them curiously for a moment. Tim didn’t see, eyes still scrunched shut, despite no water reaching them. It was more instinctual, really. 

The Joker let his hair go, letting him slump forwards on his knees. He walked around to kneel in front of Tim, lifting him up by the chin and looking at his face, red and burning. 

“A couple more rounds, maybe. I’ll see how it settles later.” 

Tim’s heart dropped at the words before he could compartmentalize the pain, panic bursting through him. What was he trying to _do_? His mind was too blurry from the pain to put together what he needed to figure out what was in store from him, eyesight blurring as well. 

Tim coughed again, letting water dribble from his mouth as the Joker dragged him back to where he was strapped down. He didn’t even have to try, really. Tim sagged against his hold, the man dragging him by the crook of the elbow as his hands had been tied behind his back. 

Tim shivered a little once he had been strapped back down to the table, the Joker connecting wires and bolts to his table. The table turned to be completely horizontal, Tim’s wet hair pooling water around his head. 

“Now,” Came the Joker’s voice from above him, “What’s your name.” 

Tim’s eyebrows furrowed at the question. If he really wanted to know, wouldn’t it be easier for him to simply take the mask off? 

“Red Robin,” He answered anyway. 

“No,” The Joker said matter-of-factly, voice all-too-gleeful. “It’s _Junior_.” The man electrocuted Tim for his troubled, leaving him to jolt and spasm against the metal table, limbs writhing. 

“What’s your name?” He asked again, head tilted. 

“Red Robin,” Tim answered bitingly, seeing what he was doing with this. 

Tim wasn’t oblivious to conditioning. He had been through it as a child, though it was much less severe and by the hands of his parents. Something about being a good heir for the empire he would inherit, Tim didn’t really remember now. 

The talk about family and the conditioning now was starting to make the bleach make more sense to Tim. Maybe he was trying to get his skin pale as theirs. He wasn’t far off, but it was still too tan in comparison to the Joker’s nearly stark-white skin. 

The man in question declared a negative to Tim’s answer and electrocuted him once more. He shook his head in disappointment as he tutted. Joker came over to pet Tim’s hair in a false act of comfort, voice biting. 

“Make this easy on yourself, Junior. I’m not afraid to hurt you.” 

“Fuck you,” Tim answered, jolting again as he was electrocuted, biting his tongue to keep from yelping in pain. 

… 

“What’s your name?”

“Red Robin.” 

“Try again.” 

“Red Rob- Robin.”

“What’s your _name?_ ”

“Red… Robin.”

… 

Tim was brought back for another round of skin bleaching after a couple of weeks, maybe three. It wasn’t pale enough, apparently. Joker seemed to be going above and beyond to make his gift to Harley perfect. He didn’t even let any henchmen in as he worked, not leaving the area for too long. It made Tim sick to know he was simply a _project_ for the man, a plaything he would use to win the affections of someone he wanted just for the sake of having. 

His mask was peeled off this time, and Tim kept his eyes scrunched tight as to keep them from getting any bleach in them as he was dunked into it again. He made sure to keep his mouth shut as well, only breathing once he was hosed off with the pressure-blast once more. He gasped for breath as he was dragged back, too weak to fight back at all this time. 

When he was strapped back onto the table, it was to another round of conditioning. He wasn’t getting anywhere with his attempts, really. At least not for today. It was his third week of it, and he wasn’t broken yet. Tim had been trained by Batman, of all people. His will was intact. Strong. 

But at the same time, he was tired. 

He missed the others. He missed Jason and Dick and Barbara and Cass and Stephanie, and even Damian. It led to him wondering if they even bothered searching for him, which was depressing enough for him. His own words echoed in his head as he remembered what he had said to Damian, repeating in his head. 

_Don’t try to follow me._

_Fuck off, you little demon shit._

_Don’t try to follow me._

_Fuck off, you little demon shit._

_Don’t try to follow me._

_Fuck off._

_Don’t follow me._

Tim felt like crying, and he ignored the tears that were dragged out of him after another round of electrocution. 

Were the others even aware he was gone? It wouldn’t be weird if he was. Tim was known for just leaving for a while, anyway. It wasn’t like him leaving again would be something to call for panic. Just something that happened. He hadn’t even been able to press his emergency beacon before he was snatched from the alleyway. Tim doubted he had trackers on him, anyway. He disabled whatever Bruce had tagged him with when he found them. He was cursing himself for doing it now. 

  
  
  
  


“ _WHAT’S YOUR NAME?!_ ” The Joker screamed at him. It had been five hours now, the longest he had been under conditioning without a break for water or food. 

“Re… Red Rob-” Tim sobbed out, spasming uncontrollably against his bonds despite the fact that he hadn’t been electrocuted at the moment. Tears and snot had long since made their way down his face hair stuck to his forehead with a sheen of sweat. His cheeks were red where he had been slapped multiple times, and blood pooled in his mouth where he had bitten on his tongue too hard. 

The Joker turned to his machine and turned it on full blast. There was little chance that anyone could take this for much longer, even Batman himself couldn’t even if he really wanted to. Everyone had their breaking points, and Tim was nearly at his. Joker turned back to Tim with a menacing look. 

“Last chance, Junior. What’s your name?” 

“Red-” Joker didn’t give him the time to finish his words, alternatively electrocuting him at the highest setting he had. 

Tim’s eyes widened as much as they could, thrashing against his bonds as he screamed, going hoarse by the end. His heart was going at intervals he didn’t think he could handle, and all he could register was _pain pain pain_ and _make it stop,_ **_please._ **

“ **JUNIOR!** JUNIOR JUNIOR JUNIOR, _Junior,_ Junior, Junior, _please,_ ” Tim screamed before he asked the question, gasping for breath as the Joker shut off his machine, walking up to a sobbing Tim with a gleeful smile. He held the teen’s chin in his hand, tilting his head to face him. 

“What did you say?” He asked softly, voice gentle. 

“Junior,” Tim sobbed out hysterically, limbs jolting against the metal restraints weakly. “My name’s Junior, I’m Junior, _please,_ no more, I can’t, I can’t…” Tim gasped for breath, blood trickling out of the corner of his mouth. “Please please please _please, no more no more no more,_ I _can’t._ ” 

Joker stroked his darkened hair gently, undoing his bonds carefully as he wiped Tim’s face carefully, blood rubbing against his near-white skin as he helped sit the trembling teenager up. 

“Of course, sonny boy. Come with Daddy, now.” 

Tim nodded jerkily, still shaking from his hysterical cries as tears made their way down his face. Joker kept a strong arm around him, simply happy that Tim’s will had finally broken. 

When Tim had been slumped over in a chair at a wooden table, hands wrapped around a cup of water as his arms shook, he looked up at Joker with a hesitant glance. 

“No more?” He asked, voice so quiet that it cracked at the second syllable. Joker nodded in agreement from where he sat across the table, hands folded in front of him with a large grin. 

“No more. What’s your name?” He watched Tim flinch at the question before he replied, voice shaky. 

“J-Junior.” 

The Joker’s smile had never been wider. 

… 

When a large man dressed in black had entered Junior’s home, his father hurried him away with a quick reassurance of “ _This is what we’ve been getting ready for, Junior. Your big reveal against the man who tried to hurt Daddy._ ” Junior had nodded obediently, taking the gun that he had hidden away and putting it in his suit jacket’s pocket. 

He listened as his father and the man in black went over the same script that the Joker had written before. The man’s voice was familiar, but Junior shook it off as his limbs shook in phantom pain. He didn’t want to be hurt again, he was good. 

  
Junior knew his father was only doing good for him when he had been strapped down to that table again. He was tainted, ugly, and he needed to be fixed. All his father was doing was fixing him so he wouldn’t hurt him. He always looked so sad when he was pulling the metal cuffs around Junior’s wrists and ankles. 

He told him that Junior had gone insane and tried killing him, and this was the only way to fix him. Of course, he believed his father. He loved him. He was keeping him safe from the man in black who was trying to steal him away to kill him and his father. Junior wouldn’t let that happen. He would never. 

There wasn’t anything for him past his father. His father told him his mother had rejected them. That day, he had been strapped down and treated again. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was because he wasn’t good enough to keep her around, or that he wasn’t fixed enough to make her stay. He let his father do what was needed. 

When he had tuned back into the conversation, he noticed that they were close to the end of the script that his father had written for him, and he took a deep breath as he made his way out, stage left. The gun was in hand and it was pointed at the man in black as the script said. Junior wasn’t permitted to go off-script, the rehearsals hadn’t allowed him to. He wasn’t allowed, and if he tried, he was met with punishment again. 

Punishment was never enjoyable for him. All it did was make him cry, and when he cried his skin burnt when the tears pooled over his eyelids. His skin was always burning by the time he had finished, and the J- his father. His father had sent him off to bed without any further words. 

He didn’t want to be punished. So when he pointed the gun at the man in black and someone smaller had screamed something at him, he wasn’t sure why he paused. His father was starting to look angry, but Junior wasn’t focusing on that. He turned his face to look at where the voice had come from, seeing a teenager around his age dressed in red, yellow, and green, a hooded cloak on him. It looked familiar, but that didn’t make sense. All he knew was the man in black, his father, and the mother who rejected him. 

The person didn’t take note of his internal struggles, speaking again, but this time with a firmer voice. 

“What are you doing, Red?” Junior tipped his head a little at the question, a jolt of familiarity going through his head once more. It made his shoulders shake and his grip on the gun tighten, still firmly pointed at Ba- the man in black that had tried to kill his father. 

“Who are you?” Junior demanded, voice shaking slightly. He could see the Jo- his father’s face twist in his peripheral and he ignored it, ignored the tremors that came in fear of another punishment. 

“Don’t be silly, Red. You couldn’t have forgotten me that quickly, could you? Not after holding my name for so long.” 

Junior’s heart raced at the words, mouth dry as his hands shook, grip tightening until his knuckles were near splitting. The voice was _familiar_ , he knew it from somewhere. Maybe his father had lied about his life? He hadn’t remembered any of it, really. Nothing before his training and scrip memorizing. 

Junior hadn’t found any of the memories that his father claimed he had lived through, he hadn’t found any evidence of it. Evidence was his strong suit. 

He paused at the thought. Where had that come from? When he thought it again, a phantom pain possessed him again, and it strengthened his resolve. He didn’t want to be punished. He’d do as his father had said. 

The teen drew himself to full height and pointed at the man in black confidently, about to pull the trigger before he paused at the person’s words. 

“You aren’t a killer, Robin.” 

The last word. 

Robin. Robin robin robin, Robin, Red Robin. Red Robin. 

Junior’s- Robin’s- Red Robin’s hands- _Tim’s_ hands shook as though he had been electrocuted again, and the phantom pains took over his body almost completely, making him blind from tremors. Tim looked around wildly, eyes wide as he took in everything around him and the gun in his hand before looking up at the Joker across him. 

The _Joker._ Who had _broken_ him, nearly made him kill _Batman,_ the Joker. The Joker, the Joker, the Joker, the _Joker._

Tim turned and shot the Joker in the head. 

His hands shook so violently after the shot that he dropped the gun to the ground with a clatter, hands covering his mouth as he stumbled back on weak legs. Tears overcame him as his mind scrabbled to latch onto anything that made sense, if there was anything that made sense anymore in the first place. He took in gasps as he sobbed, sinking to his knees as high-pitched giggles escaped his mouth at the same time. He didn’t know why he was laughing. It wasn’t funny. 

Not funny, not funny at all. It wasn’t funny. 

  
He had shot the Joker. 

Tim gasped for breath, screams choking their way out of him without his consent, and he couldn’t make them _stop._

No more, no more, _please_ no more, _please please please._

He killed the Joker. 

Arms wrapped around him tightly, face pressed against someone’s shoulder as he screamed through his sobs as though he was being electrocuted again, thrashing against the person’s arms. 

“I didn’t- I didn’t _mean-_ ” Tim gasped out, trying to explain… something. Anything. He didn’t know what was going on. He didn’t… who was he?

**_What’s your name?_ **   
  


He flinched again, wailing against the person’s shoulder. The person he was on flinched at the sound before his voice came after, arms wrapped tight around him and rubbing his back gently.

“It’s okay, it’s okay. You’re okay. We found you, you’re okay. You’re okay, Drake.” 

Drake. Drake Drake Drake Drake, _Drake._ He knew that name. 

Tim latched onto that name and let himself scream until he couldn’t, sob until he ran out of breath, and shake until he was so physically tired he couldn’t do anything but pass out, slumped against the teen’s chest as tremors ran through him violently. 

**_What’s your name?_ **

  
_I don’t_ _know._


	2. Chapter 2

Damian's not sure where to start when Tim is brought home, back to the Manor. 

The Batcave is appropriately abuzz with activity when Tim is carried in, Jason and Dick and Barbara and the cavalry ready to leap at the chance to see their missing Red Robin after nearly three months of worrying and searching for the teen. 

The state that they found him in was anything but pretty, really. When they take him away from that stupid warehouse and away from the adrenaline-filled moments paired with a gunshot, Damian can properly take a look at his counterpart. 

Tim’s skin was bleached pale and white, with mild burn marks around his mouth and eyes. His hair looked to be slightly green at the ends, but not so much that it was overwhelming. A small J had been carved into the cheek right under his eye on the left side of his face. Scars were riddling his body, hands looking worse for wear than they should have been. There was evidence of knives being pushed under his fingernails if the scars under his nail beds weren’t evidenced enough. 

It was a little hard to look at, paired with the purple suit that he had been wearing that made him look eerily like the Joker, which was probably the demented man’s goal in the first place. Damian wasn’t sure what to do with that fact, or what to do at all. 

When Tim was brought back to the cave, he was immediately treated to IVs and all the medical care in the world, courtesy of Alfred and Jason, who had both made their best efforts to keep their little bird stable as could be in the face of the past three months that had ended up changing him completely. 

Damian still wasn’t sure what to do, really. Tim was… not someone he was used to seeing in a state like this. He was one of the people that he wasn’t happy to see weak, or in pain, or just in a state of _wrong_ at all. Red Robin was really one of Gotham’s finer heroes for a reason, with his ingenuity so genuine it couldn’t be faked by the teenager behind the mask. Damian held a level of respect for his skill set that he didn’t hold for much else, really. There was no denying Tim’s intelligence, nor his skill with his bo staff that was far from amateur. 

Tim was someone that Damian competed with for the sake of improving himself _because_ Tim was a worthy adversary. He never thought he could reach this sort of low. 

The first week that he was back was spent in bed, barely conscious for the most part. He flickered in and out for the most part, but when he was awake, he could barely hold onto any semblance of a conversation for very long. The few words he did speak were mumbled and held no value, usually rotating between _scripts_ and _rules_ and _working._

The rest of the time was spent asleep, looking almost peaceful if it weren’t for the burns that were being treated and the bleached skin. They hadn’t done much to alter his appearance out of fear of him protesting it as some coping mechanism or such. 

It was around two weeks since he had come home, and Damian was sitting by his bedside, sitting cross-legged in a chair sat by Tim. Alfred the cat had been sitting in his lap, book in front of him as he read slowly, eyes flickering up now and then.

Damian would deny that he was worried about Tim’s health for as long as he could because he didn’t. He was simply waiting on the only good sparring partner to awaken so he could resume his training as usual. 

(Some part of him knew deep down that things would not be that simple for a very long time, not even close. This wasn’t something Tim could just bounce back from out of nowhere, especially not when they were considering the mental fallback of the injuries he had gained. 

The Joker was not kind to his victims, especially so when his victims were vigilantes that he wanted to maim and injure and turn into his heirs. The electrocution itself was bad enough, but the conditioning that was heavily implied through his psyche in the warehouse that it had been successful enough, though he managed to break through it eventually. 

Damian wasn’t sure why it was him that had broken it through. Maybe the mention of Robin, really. The former role that Tim had so coveted could’ve snapped him from his conditioning with its familiarity and the importance it held as well.)

Tim stirred as Damian flipped over to the thirteenth chapter of his book, unnoticeable by the naked eye, but not by an assassin’s. Damian made an effort to stay nonchalant as he read the beginning of the newer chapter, waiting for Tim to notice him as he came to. It would be best to let him wake up safe and not be overwhelmed as he did so. Not that he was concerned about it. It would just be best. 

“Dam...an?” Tim rasped out, the teen’s eyes flickering over to his still form in the chair beside him. Damian shut his book with a soft thump, moving it to the side and sitting up in his chair. Alfred the cat shifted slightly but made no move to jump off the sixteen-year-old’s lap. 

“I see you’ve awoken, Drake. You’ve caused quite the ruckus here, the past few days,” He said carefully, words eloquent in the way that he had learned through an abundance of classic literature. It was a little alien, the way he spoke sometimes, but it was comfortable to him, almost second nature. 

“Wha… where’m I?” He questioned, shifting to sit up with a wince, clutching at a cut on his side with a grimace of pain. Damian frowned a bit at the action. 

“At the Cave. I’m sure the past few months have been strenuous, take a moment to sit still in case of tearing open your stitches.” Tim looked at him, a little confused before a light of understanding filled his eyes and was replaced by a sudden jolt of fear. 

“Oh my God, I- I killed the Joker. I killed the _Joker_ , what is- What’s Bruce- Is he okay? Is he m-mad-” Tim made a move to stand up, wincing in pain and flinching slightly as he tried to move without being in pain. Damian glared at the actions. 

“Drake, you’re going to kill yourself worrying over something this trivial,” Damian interrupted, voice sharp in the way that commanded attention from the teenager amid his panic. “Lie _down._ ”

Tim settled down at the words, hands still shaking slightly as he leaned back on the headboard, waiting on Damian’s next words. It was slightly comforting to know that he could still be quelled by Damian’s sharp tongue should it be needed. _Maybe comfort and security was found in familiarity_ , Damian thought. 

“Would you like to know what I know, or would you rather wait for Grayson’s assessment?” Damian questioned, continuing with the conversation. Tim hesitated where he sat before shifting slightly. 

“I want to hear it from you. You won’t… lie to me,” Tim’s voice grew shakier at the end of the sentence, though Damian overlooked it for the strange feeling in the bottom of his stomach at the words. He pushed it down to focus on what to say to Tim next. 

“Well, we know that you have been missing for close to three months, and those months have not been pleasant for you, both physically and mentally. We aren’t sure the extent of the psychological damage but we are sure that it’s there. And the physical stress on your body will take roughly a month to heal completely. It will be… a hard recovery. But it’s one I’m sure that you will make it through.” 

Tim was silent at the end of his small overview, staring at his hands resting in his lap before he spoke again, voice quiet. 

“You’re putting a lot of faith in me,” Tim said, humourless. Damian snorted at the words, gaining attention from Tim. 

“It’s not _faith,_ ” Damian spat out the word, bitter. “I am aware of your abilities. I can judge based on what I know of you that you _will_ recover. I will not take anything else as an answer because I know you are capable of such.” 

Tim nodded slowly after he answered, looking less forlorn then he had previously. 

“Always knew you cared,” Tim mumbled as he slipped down the bed, eyes sliding shut. Damian wasn’t surprised that he had been feeling tired once more. With the strain of his injuries, he was surprised that he had managed to stay awake through the duration of their conversation. 

“Don’t fool yourself, Drake. I am simply waiting for a capable sparring partner,” Damian scoffed, returning to his book with the shake of his head. He ignored Tim’s weak attempt at another snipe as he fell back asleep, opening up his novel once more. 

…

  
  


Two months since Tim had returned, and one month since he was finally of bed rest. Damian had seen him wandering the halls of the manor, skin still startlingly pale in comparison to his complexion beforehand. The damage the bleach had done to his skin was irreversible and left him avoiding mirrors with a vengeance. That, paired with the J ingrained into his face left him unwilling to face himself, scared of seeing what the Joker had done to him. 

Tim was mostly in denial, from Damian’s perspective. He refused to speak to the therapist that had been sanctioned with the Justice League, brought in on a special request by Bruce Wayne. He refused to speak about the Joker and acted as though he never existed in the first place. It wasn’t healthy at all, really, but Dick and the others had seen progress through the smiles that Tim forced upon his lips rather than his refusal to speak. 

Either that or they didn’t want to talk about it too much, push Tim too hard in his attempts to get better. They treated him like he was fragile, or a glass vase that would break at a single touch and the pieces would scatter, never to be put together again. 

Damian, for his age of a sixteen-year-old and occupation as an assassin who was mostly emotionally-stunted, was not-so-easily stopped by their ignorance of Tim’s recovery. 

He had quickly tracked down the other teenager to the library of the manor. He had been spending a lot of time there lately, skipping out on therapy sessions and burying himself literature akin to what Damian had been raised on. It was long and lengthy, and the perfect distraction that had kept him occupied and away from other people. 

Damian crept into the library, wearing mostly black simply out of coincidence that also happened to keep him hidden in the shadows of the large bookshelves that littered the room. Damian spied Tim sitting in the large armchair by the fireplace, face stubbornly blank as he read a large novel. 

“Drake.” Tim didn’t jump as he saw the teenager come into the light of the fireplace, walking over to the armchair across him and taking a seat. He looked at the pale features lit up orange, and spoke without pause. 

“This is not healthy for you.” He said, not pausing as he spoke despite Tim shifting slightly in his seat, uncomfortable. “You pretending that the man who did this to you does not exist is not healthy. You need to face what happened without avoidance because I _know_ you and I know you are more than a simple coward.”

Tim slammed his book shut, glaring at Damian from where he sat. 

“You have no right to judge me,” Tim hissed, voice venomous and tremoring. “You have- you have no _idea_ who I am, how can you know who I am when _I_ don’t fucking know who I am? You don’t know- you don’t know what it’s like, to have your name ripped from you and replaced and told that you’re nothing but the son of that f-f-fucking _clown…_ ” Tim gasped out as tears began to run down his cheeks, wiping furiously at his face. Damian was quiet where he sat, not interrupting as he stood up to kneel in front of Tim’s chair. 

He waited for the other to calm down before he reached up to take the book from his lap, ignoring Tim’s shaking hands.

“What is this? Shakespeare?” He asked softly, more than he had thought he could have with his own past, but he still managed. “Want to start reading?”

When he didn’t get an answer, he read anyway, reminiscent of the late nights he and Tim had spent together after patrols together. They had both enjoyed making a mockery of Shakespeare together, a personal favourite being Romeo and Juliet to heckle when the two of them had been bored and wanted to snipe at something together rather than at each other. 

It was one of the less violent parts of their relationship as rivals, only brought together by their hate of classic literature. Their discussion was only brought on by Tim and Damian crashing in the library after a rough night of patrol, Damian spotting the book and making fun of Tim before discovering the notes he had written in the margins criticizing the writing. 

It became a tradition after that, both of them settling down to look through the books after a long day and both of them relieving their frustrations at the writer in question. It was cathartic and something that both of them considered a truce. 

“You have no right to call me a coward,” Tim whispered halfway through Damian's quiet reading, breaking the steady silence they had going. Damian paused in his reading, looking up from where he knelt in front of Tim, eyes intense. 

“Prove me _wrong,_ ” Damian said quietly. Tim paused before nodding, and for a moment, the fire in his eyes looked less like the reflection in his eyes and more like a small flame of his previous passion in his eyes. 

…

Four months. Four long months after Tim was gone, Damian and him were much closer than they had been before. It wasn’t on purpose, really, and the teenager wasn’t really sure if he wanted it to happen or not. After their conversation in the library, Tim seemed to have thrown himself into his work with a vigour, gaining progress on his recovery with little incident. 

There was still the issue of the mirrors, however, and he had yet to be let back on patrol. Damian wasn’t so much bothered by the second as he was by the first, really, and he wasn’t sure why, either. It was something holding him back from making his way past the first hurdle of his trauma with the Joker, in Damian’s eyes. 

Of course, everything in Damian’s eyes was something akin to a demon for the others, apparently. 

Todd and Grayson were not foreign to Damian, not by a long shot, but the way they were acting around him might as well have been. He had already been the one to get pulled aside more than once when he was speaking to Tim and warned on what to say and what not to say, as though he was a petulant child who couldn’t hold his tongue. 

Damian was more than capable of self-restraint when he needed it, and it wasn’t as though he was going to jump up and down at Tim being injured and momentarily weakened, either. He was going to be there for his rival whether Grayson and Todd liked it or not. 

Bruce had been mostly busy with taking care of Wayne Industries in Tim’s absence, but he was there for the teenager as much as he could be. He also seemed to be the only one that hadn’t treated Damian like a stuck-up brat, despite his attitude when he had first gotten to the city. He had grown from then if he was trying to be honest with himself. He was someone that people could _count_ on. He had thought so, at least. 

Grayson had been eyeing Damian for the past ten minutes as Tim spoke about an article he had read while confined to the Manor, contributing to the conversation as he would any other day. Tim didn’t seem to be bothered by it and Damian wasn’t either, so the way Grayson had been staring at the two was probably unjustified. 

It came to a turning point when Tim waved his arm excitedly and managed to hit Damian’s shoulder, the other reacting out of instinct by grabbing his arm and moving to twist it before stopping himself, short, releasing it and tilting his head as he looked at Tim, a silent question Tim nodded before continuing, and that was when Grayson had tugged Damian away by the arm.

“What is it this time,” Damian snapped, already completely finished with the older man, who frowned disapprovingly at him. 

“I’m just trying to look out for Tim, Damian, you have to understand-” 

“You think I’m not doing the same?” Damian asked fiercely, surprising Grayson as he said as much, releasing the grip on his arm as he continued. “Are you under the impression that I’m speaking with Tim with the intent to harm him, or make this harder on him? Because if you think that low of me, there isn’t much to discuss here.” 

At the silence from Grayson, who looked to be searching for words, Damian scoffed, raising his chin at the man. “Good day, Grayson. Do your best not to bother me during my conversations anymore.” 

As Damian stalked off, going back to Tim’s side, the teen looked thoroughly proud at that moment, whispering a quiet appraisal to him. It didn’t feel like a win after a moment. 

… 

“You’re going to have to look at yourself eventually,” Damian spoke from the doorway of Tim’s room, leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed over his chest. Tim didn’t move from where he sat in front of the full-length mirror, cloth thrown over top of it. Tim had one hand curled around the corner of the sheet, sitting in front of it cross-legged. 

“Might be starting to forget what my handsome face looks like,” Tim said softly, Damian walking into the dimly lit room with socks on, standing behind Tim as he crossed his arms, looking down at the head of black hair that was still staring at the covered mirror. 

“Handsome is an overstatement,” Damian sniped lightly, waiting patiently for Tim to gather his thoughts. 

“If I… see myself,” He started slowly, forcing the words from his mouth. “It makes everything that happened… real. It makes it. Something that happened. And not imagined. And I don’t think I can deal with that.” Tim’s voice trailed off at the end as he dropped his head to gaze at his lap. 

Damian dropped down to his knees next to Tim, hands resting on his knees as he turned one palm over in his lap, letting Tim place his hand overtop it with his fingers curled around his tightly, taking a shuddering breath. 

“Well, good thing I’ll be here to keep you in line,” Damian said simply, squeezing his hand back. Tim looked back to him with an air of surprise before nodding a bit to himself, taking a deep breath. 

Tim pulled, and the cloth flew off the mirror.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anddd thats that! this is much more damian centric than the first part, but two halves of the same whole makes a better story to me. i think this part is an okay conclusion to the story, as well as the end, but you can tell me if you think otherwise. 
> 
> i honestly do think that damian and tim could end up being friends in a different life, they just click to me when they push past the insults and rivalry. they're definitely more friends and challenging each other, and again, same age, so damian is more mature in his understanding of these things along with emotions. 
> 
> that's all from me, if you have any complaints or something to say, have a good day!

**Author's Note:**

> so i had the sudden urge to write this, sorry to tim fans. i didnt really have much in mind minus showing a mature damians reaction to the jokers torture of tim, which is why he was aged up to the same age as tim. i might add more chapters than just two, depending how long i want the aftermath to be
> 
> in the meanwhile, happy reading! feel free to comment


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